


putting out the fire (with gasoline)

by kuchikopi, tonberrys



Series: renascentia: between the lines [8]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Black family feels, First War with Voldemort, Gen, Marauders' Era, POV Regulus Black, POV Sirius Black, POV Third Person, Pureblood Society, The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-16
Updated: 2017-09-16
Packaged: 2018-12-30 08:07:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12104382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kuchikopi/pseuds/kuchikopi, https://archiveofourown.org/users/tonberrys/pseuds/tonberrys
Summary: The almost boring summer.Or, how Sirius ended up running away in theRenascentia-verse.





	putting out the fire (with gasoline)

In the summer, everyone vacated the city to get away from the smog and noise. If you came from the right sort of family, you packed up your bags and went to your Summer Home (and you weren't anyone if you _didn't_ have a Summer Home, capital S, capital H). After a week at home, you’d need to make sure you had everything you would need until you returned a month and a bit later. This was less of a problem for the two boys, who had reached an age where they were trusted to pack their own things and then have them inspected before leaving.

The problem was that said inspection was over half an hour ago.

Their father was going up and down the stairs trying to hurry their mother along while, by the sounds of it, she was having another one of her 'little moods,' as their aunt sometimes referred to it when their mother was having a tantrum. So ultimately, it came down to this: Sirius and Regulus waiting to leave, and had been for — by Sirius' admittedly terrible time-keeping — forty-one minutes.

Needless to say, Sirius was sulking again. Slouched on the couch so he was almost lying with his chin on his chest, he would have argued that he was glowering intently, but considering he had dressed "appropriately" (or "smartly" as his father called it), it could definitely be construed as sulking over that. Or the fact it had now been forty-two minutes and their father had gone back up the stairs to find out what was wrong _now_. He had been chided to sit up twice, had done for approximately six minutes before slowly slumping back down in a heap. He’d only been home a week, yet he had walked out of dinner five times, lunch three, and smashed two tea-cups entirely on purpose. This was not boding to be good day, and it was only early afternoon. He harrumphed and slid further down the chair in protest.

Seated in a chair just an arm’s reach away, Regulus, too, huffed a quiet sigh, his eyes flicking first from the pages of his book to their father's retreating form, then to the slumping lump beside him. Regulus had (of course) been packed and ready the night before, even if there had been little need to approach with any level of preparedness when the harried last-minute scramble seemed to go on and on. His posture gave no indication of his impatient thoughts, upright and straight-shouldered and admittedly uncomfortable, but Sirius was rarely so inclined to keep such dissatisfactions to himself for the sake of appearances.

"Have your bones disintegrated?" Regulus asked calmly, turning his attention from his brother's slump to the pages of his book again.

“Has your brain?” came the ever so witty reply. Sirius looked at his brother and painted on his most sarcastic smile.

If they had been younger, he might have tried to convince him to slouch in protest of the mind numbing boredom of the situation, or might have just decided that grabbing him was a good idea, if only to see what he would do. Neither really seemed comfortable, which was disquieting in a way he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Things had gradually gotten worse lately, and he was starting to lose his temper more, starting to _notice_ how different he felt here instead of being at school. It wasn’t a pleasant realisation. He had already said he’d had enough, that if it didn’t change right now, then he was leaving, and that would be the end of it. It wasn’t the first time and it probably wouldn’t be the last. But he had looked forward to leaving London and (in theory) the war behind him. True, his brother was as fun as a wet blanket in winter, but he was hoping to at least try to get him to play a little, maybe on the beach, or see if he could convince him to come out for a night; the regulars sometimes had card games or stolen alcohol that made it all worth it. But his mother never did work to a schedule. Nor could she be trusted not to ruin his life whenever possible.

“Must be something going on,” Sirius said, twisting himself around to look to the doorway. Maybe she couldn’t decide what to wear or the house elf had pissed her off. Maybe she’d beheaded him. That’d make a nice ending to the day. “I think I can hear something,” he added nastily, “I think our wonderful father just expressed an actual emotion. He must be dying or killing her.”

Regulus's rolled his eyes at the quip, book still held ready, even as he rose to the bait: "You shouldn't _say_ that," he hissed back, reflexively glancing to the floor above, as if Sirius's words could float up and reach their parents' ears by sheer force of scandalousness. Pulling his attention down again, he added a little more matter-of-factly, "No one is _dying_ upstairs. I'm sure it's nothing."

In the sudden hyper-aware silence, Regulus resisted the urge to strain his ears: to listen felt uncomfortable, like being privy to something you oughtn't be privy to. Their level and detached father reacting to _anything_ rarely - if ever - boded well, and as much as Regulus hoped for a calm and relaxing holiday, they hadn't even left yet. If there was already an ordeal…

“Should I just _think_ it, then?” Sirius snapped at him, but there was no real heart behind it.

At this point, Sirius didn’t really care much what he should or should not do or say. It had lost much of the novelty with Remus and that fiasco. When it came to a case of foot in mouth, he hadn’t just crossed a line, he’d danced over it twice and mooned it just for good measure. However, it always felt more powerfully charged here at home than it did at school, lightning crackling in the air waiting to cause a storm over one wrong word, and if anyone excelled at saying the wrong word or thirty, it was him.

He smirked to himself. “Recommending I should think of our parents committing such a crime, you should be ashamed of yourself, baby brother.”

"Don't be ridiculous. That's obviously not what I meant," Regulus countered primly, pressing his lips into a line as he momentarily gave up on reading. Perhaps he'd asked for it, remarking on Sirius's awful posture… (but it really _was_ awful, with no sign of improvement.)

Sirius glanced behind him, wondering if he could hear better but dismissed the thought. There was little Regulus could do better that Sirius _wanted_ to do. Pulling his legs out, he flopped back on the seat. “Maybe we could just go by ourselves. We could probably do that next summer, considering how much older I’ll be.”

Lifting his eyebrows slightly, he added, "Wouldn’t that be - I don’t know - rude, leaving without them?"

“I think they won’t _notice_ ,” Sirius muttered, giving a shrug.

The idea was starting to sound very appealing, a break from his parents, and Regulus was rarely any trouble without his bad influences. He and his brother had been drifting apart for a long time, but in the last two years it had gotten considerably worse. He just kept feeling so angry at him for paying lip service to something he couldn’t possibly believe in, but he understood peer pressure and that Regulus had always had a much weaker constitution. Sometimes, he wondered how they could be related at all.

Still, they were, and Regulus was his brother and his responsibility. In all truth, he knew he’d probably started to pull away first, and despite what some people thought of him, he did feel guilt. He pointed to the book, “Don’t read the whole summer. Let’s do something instead,” he suggested, mind filling in the blanks as he went. “This is the last year before we’re old and have to attend all the idiotic parties and smile and nod and all of that clap-trap. We should take advantage of that.” True, his idea of fun wasn’t on the same island as his brother’s, but with a little twisting, he was sure he could get him to have _some_ fun. “Spend time together, blow off the kid stuff, you know.”

A sideways glance, a little lift of the eyebrows. Suspicion lightly twinged at Regulus's features as he thought to years past, close calls on questionable excursions that would no longer be justified as they skittered on the brink of adulthood, but as the distance from those years grew, Sirius's suggestions grew further and farther between in turn. More often, his brother had taken to his own more drastic rebellions, to blasting muggle music and inflammatory comments; he had wound himself so tightly in those Gryffindor _friends_ (the word left a sour taste in Regulus's mouth) that the company of his _real_ brother was a mere back-up plan when he didn't have the scum around to ease his boredom.

Regulus Arcturus Black, the eternal back-up plan, as it was.

He possessed half a mind to brush off the suggestion, to tell his brother that his books would inevitably be a summer experience superior to whatever ridiculous shenanigans Sirius had planned, but he couldn't do it. He _did_ enjoy his books, safely knew he would continue to enjoy them no matter how many times he dove back in, but temptation tugged: He missed spending time with his brother more than he dared to admit...and perhaps if they kept busy, Sirius would feel less _restless need_ to spout rude remarks about their family or the other families attending. (Perhaps.)

"What sort of 'something' do you have in mind?" Regulus asked, voice still noncommittal, even as an inquisitive light sparked in his expression.

The creative slump of summer that often plagued Sirius’s return back to London had already hit, but he wasn’t going to give up that easily. Giving up wasn’t something he was known for. “You know as well as I do that most of these dinners will be the same: they’ll talk about war, they’ll talk about Him and act like they’re not talking about Him but make it obvious that they were; they’ll talk about politics; and they’ll talk about relationships.” He counted each thing off on his hand, as if really trying to get the point across. It was all the same things as last year and the year before, and he knew very well that he wasn’t good at keeping his mouth shut at the best of times. “So, since the Department of Law Unenforcement is useless, chances are the war talk will still be there at Christmas, so there’s no point in talking about it now. Since none of us have the slightest interest in politics, as it’s always someone you end up bribing anyway, no point in talking about that either. And...” He frowned, looking his younger brother up and down before declaring, “I don’t think you’ve ever even considered relationships at your age, let alone done anything, so that’s off the cards anyway.”

With a look of mild but familiar exasperation, Regulus marked his page and closed the book. The assessment of their upcoming dinnertime subjects was spot on, and with pretenses aside, his _actual_ enthusiasm for war discussion was notably less than he let on amidst their social peers. Quick to fall into line with praise-where-praise-was-due (and in purist circles, a particular praise _was_ due), sometimes he almost convinced himself he was just as comfortable in such conversations as he was curled up with a book. The undeniable lie always passed along with its accompanying social pressure, but he knew his place, and to buck against it seemed like an inevitable waste of time.

The looming promise of relationships, however, was another story entirely: _Pretending_ to be enthusiastic about that particular subject elicited apathy at best, but that did not make his brother's mockery any less annoying. (Nor did Regulus appreciate the chronic jabs at his age, and the way the soft childishness of his face refused to sharpen.) "I'm not _that much_ younger than you, Sirius. Stop acting as though I'm ten."

“Yet you attempt to act ten years _older_ and look considerably closer to ten anyway,” Sirius pointed out, apparently unable to stop himself from managing to push what he knew to be a sore spot even when he wanted his brother’s cooperation. He wasn’t saying anything that wasn’t true. His brother had a terrible habit of trying to overcompensate when it came to his age, which frankly he didn’t need to do. There was a spark there somewhere, hinted at in the rare moments he could really get a reaction out of him (few and far between now) and was without a doubt there, should he ever learn to use it, but he didn’t seem to like it much. Perhaps their fundamental difference: Sirius needed a little spark in his life. They had a number of perfectly logical reasons not to spend the whole summer under the watchful adult eyes.

In all honesty, Sirius just wanted to do something _else_. It was getting harder and harder to stay away from ‘dangerous topics’ or to keep his trap shut, so anything that meant not hanging about those discussions was a giant plus. However, he had to try and reel it in: as much of a little idiot his brother could be, he wasn’t actually _stupid_ , and he knew he’d have to assuage his nervousness before they could continue.

“There’s lots of things.” Sirius shrugged, “There’s a new gallery down there; it could be cool. Especially if it’s terrible. I haven’t been exploring down there in years either. You can’t tell me that you want to spend your birthday doing the same old thing. That kind of thinking ends you up like our father. Loosen up.”

Regulus found himself surprised at the sheer normalcy of the suggestion. Nothing outrageous in the least. (Closer to) confident that Sirius wasn't just trying to trick him into doing something stupid, Regulus's tensing frame eased again and allowed for a shrug. "There is nothing wrong with being like our father," he began pointedly, "but I suppose a gallery could be interesting."

Rolling his eyes, Sirius decided just to try and put the nail in the coffin. “You know I don’t _really_ get on with most of the people there _anyway_ ,” he said, trying to keep his tone as neutral as possible. “Which probably will end with too much alcohol, offend everyone’s delicate sensibilities, end up saying completely the wrong things, and the whole thing will be a disaster. Just _think_ of what a favour you’d be doing our _dear_ parents to save them the problem and everyone else the offense.”

"So you're asking me to babysit you, keep you out of their hair," Regulus quipped back wryly, demeanor slightly ruffled, but he knew the question was settled. Had it been a true battle of wills, Sirius would have 'won' in an official sense of the word, but to have such a logical rationalisation for why he ought to comply made it all too easy to do what Regulus had been tempted to do in the first place. The decision was strangely cheering in this otherwise stressful situation, but his expression betrayed no indication. Regulus turned to look at Sirius squarely, adding with a sense of loftiness, "I accept this duty. I will sacrifice portions of my exhilarating holiday of reading to ensure that your opportunities to embarrass our parents and horrify everyone else are minimized."

“Whatever helps you justify it yourself, baby brother,” Sirius said, trying to cover up the flinch at the term ‘babysit’. He really did not like that term. Yes, he could be a little unruly, but he wasn’t a _child_. But if it came down to having Regulus do what he wanted or screaming at his younger brother, he decided it would be better just to try to just be the bigger man and make it seem like Regulus was being childish, which of course he _was_. He knew he didn’t like the term and used it anyway. Some people could be so petty. Sirius slumped back, but he smiled as he was in a much less irritable mood. “Okay, if you leave the reading to one side and attempt to have some fun, then I won’t campaign for muggleborn rights or get out pictures of Andromeda’s baby at dinner. We have a deal.”

Suddenly, the idea of the summer wasn’t seeming so bad. He could go and see some new restaurants, see what Regulus was like at the pub, maybe convince him to go exploring at the cliffs or play in the water a little. Maybe that would be fun after all. “I think that’s the door, maybe they’ve sorted it.”

Briefly, Regulus's expression had soured, but the point had been driven home: good behavior in exchange for less structure. Not bad, as far as Black family holidays went, and the sourness soon gave way to a conceding nod.

"Deal," Regulus confirmed just before their parents returned. Perhaps this summer would be different, after all.

 

* * *

 

Through their long spanned lineage, the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black had accumulated many things.

Chief among these things was real estate, both at home and abroad, ranging from the maisonette in Cagnes-sur-Mer to a flat in Hogsmeade that tended to be used as a rental rather than used by the family these days. However, Britain was in the midst of the most intense heat wave it’d seen in centuries, so any family that could afford it was heading to Porth Iago, a small magical seaside area in the northwest of Wales. Naturally, the family already had a home there. It wasn’t as large as the townhouses, though occasionally the children would have to share a room if a particularly large amount of the family decided to come. This hadn’t been a problem in a while; between Andromeda’s desertion, the respective marriages of both of Cygnus’s daughters and Alphard’s trips back to England becoming less frequent with ailing health, the house was more than was needed.

The time at Iago was spent socially; anyone with any sort of power was attending, and as such, people wanted to mix with them. The territory of the old families, with some of the newer ones vying for approval. More to the point, it was not a muggle area at all: thus, people who weren’t part of that crowd had flocked for the perceived safety in that. The message was clear: the war wouldn’t touch here. There were games of Quidditch, swimming in the sea, time on the beach, and parties practically nightly. There was always ample entertainment, whether quiet or loud. There could be little more to be asked for in terms of a holiday from the intensity of the war.

Still, somehow Sirius would manage to make things difficult. He had little patience for the majority of his peers when it came to socialising, other than to inform them they were cracked or ‘drooling over the Dark Arts.’ He had even less patience for the adults, snubbing it as sycophantic behaviour and wanting no part of it. He had little patience for the relaxation; he wasn’t built to stay still for long, and even the most exciting book would wear thin on him given a mere hour or so. But it seemed the thing he had the least patience for was his own family. A change of sea air and warm beaches didn’t seem to dampen any of the defiant spark. If anything, he seemed spoiling for a fight half the time, and he always seemed to know how to get it. Even when he didn’t seem to want one, he seemed capable of upsetting someone enough or getting on his mother’s last nerves until she snapped at him, and off they would go in yet another screaming match. Nothing seemed to dissipate the tensions for long, which remained as high there as they had been in the week before in London.

Or as Sirius himself had so eloquently put it that summer: “Same shit, different setting.”

 

* * *

 

 

If the definition of insanity was that you were doomed to do the same things over and over, then Sirius should have had a visit from the mediwizards in the green robes by now.

The argument had started simply enough - he wanted to go out, but they were expecting company, so this wasn’t allowed. There was something about the summer that always seemed to mean they were expecting company. Despite pointing out that he was almost of age and completely capable of making his own decisions, he had resorted to ignoring both parents and slouching on the couch. The soft sounds of the wireless had filled the parlour, and he was content enough in his sulk to listen to a gardening show if it meant sitting and staging his protest for the rest of the night.

At eight o’clock, the news filtered through the wireless: there had been a fire supposedly set by protesters against the anti-muggleborn signs that had been starting to pop up in high traffic areas like Diagon Alley, and another suspected disappearance of a Ministry official with pro-muggle ties, with no outward mention of You-Know-Who or the Death Eaters, even though everyone knew they were likely behind it. People were just too afraid to say anything. In an uncharacteristic move, no doubt fueled by heat and wine, Orion Black tutted from behind his newspaper.

“They ought to arrest them.”

Walburga murmured her assent.

Regulus, as usual, said nothing.

Sirius, already in a sour mood, gave them a dirty look. “For trying to get school supplies?”

“They shouldn’t be at that school!” Walburga flared, staring right back.

“There’ve been muggleborn students at Hogwarts as long as it’s been there,” Sirius said, gamely. He knew this was a sensitive subject, but wasn’t in the mood to coddle. They’d had their chance for a quiet evening and had decided instead that this would be better. On their own heads be it. “Despite Salazar Slytherin having his head up his own arse.”

“Sirius.” Orion peered over the top of the paper.

Sirius responded with exaggerated shrug.

“Muggles taking magic isn’t natural,” Walburga said, leaning forward to retrieve her glass from the table. “You ought to be proud that your community is taking a stand against it.”

“They’re not taking a stand against it,” Sirius said, moving huffily further down the couch and invading his brother’s space, because it would be just like him to try and ignore all of it with his head in a bloody book. “They’re shitting themselves over not getting killed by wizards with delusions of empowerment. The protesters are the ones putting themselves out there.”

“And starting fires,” Walburga added, dryly.

“I bet they didn’t even start it,” Sirius said, suddenly confident in his appraisal. “Even if they did, they’re fighting for their right to exist. They shouldn’t be punished for that; they ought to be applauded.”

There was another heavy sigh behind the rustling newspaper. “This is what happens when you have radicals and muggle-lovers preaching in the schools. The children become confused.”

“It’s all gone downhill since Dumbledore took over,” Walburga added mournfully, swishing the glass in her hand with a familiar ease. Sirius followed as her eyes seemed to fall to his younger brother. “Thankfully, at least in some places in the school, they still encourage the proper respect for magical culture and see the mudblood invasion for what it is. They take their responsibilities seriously.”

From behind his book, Regulus flicked his eyes first to meet their mother’s, then a shift to Sirius as the pointed implications hung thick between them. When Sirius's eyes caught his own, the younger boy subtly lifted his eyebrows, again dropping his gaze to the pages and shifting to hold the book up like some paling attempt at a wall, as if realizing he had just acknowledged the fight sparking up around him.

Sirius didn't miss a beat. “What it is, is that Lily bloody Evans in all her muggleborn glory is obliterating everyone in potions, even me ‘n’ James,” Sirius returned icily. He didn’t like to make comments singling anyone out, but he hated to be talked over and about like he wasn’t there, or worse yet, didn’t matter. He liked snide comparisons to his brother even less.

“I hope your OWLs will not be a cause of further embarrassment to this family,” Orion said, as firmly as he ever said anything. His father took academia far more seriously than anything else, which would have been terrible if either of them had turned out to be total morons. Thankfully, this wasn’t the case.

“My marks will be fine, I knew it all already, Potions is just boring,” Sirius said dismissively. Who had the time to wait around for an exact moment in fifty eight minutes when it had to be stirred counterclockwise or be utterly ruined?

“Once again, illustrating you would rather run around like a child than take your responsibilities seriously.” Walburga sighed in a particularly exaggerated and long-suffering manner, and Sirius was positive she did it just to wind him up.

“You’d rather I was mindlessly parroting your own ridiculous doctrines back to you, yeah?” Sirius scoffed irritably. “Think that position in the family’s already been filled.” He punctuated the statement by pressing two fingers behind his brother’s back, mostly because he knew being prodded in his personal space was one of the easiest ways to get a reaction out of him, but also a little because he was the example.

Regulus squirmed, the measured distance in his expression cracking to a scowl when again he looked over at his brother. "You're the one _parroting_ that mudblood-loving nonsense and expecting centuries of evidence to fold. I'm pretty sure that makes you the ridiculous one, here." Again, he spared a fleeting glance to their mother, then shifted the book, this time raising it between himself and Sirius.

The main problem with having had the same argument day in, day out for years was that it quickly spiraled out of control and into personal territory. Though hardly one for a level head, Sirius could count the amount of times he’d truly lost his temper as spectacularly bad all around, so he tended to try to keep himself level. This was easier outside of trying to reason with the _crazy person_ , however. It was that ever horrific split between feeling some sense of loyalty towards his family - a need to try to make himself understood, even if it could never really be accepted - and the urge to tell them they could burn the whole place to the ground because he was done trying to be something he wasn’t. Trying to do both at once tended to give one hell of a headache. It was suffocating, listening to them in a vacuum. Listening to their so-called friends drone on and on about how it was different in their day and how wonderful it is to see someone standing up for the poor, downtrodden magical elite.

_Fuck them._

He knew on some level what he said didn’t really matter. See, it wasn’t really the issue. The issue was power-based, as most things were with _bloody Slytherins_ , and to have a contrasting opinion and stick to your wands over it was clearly a power struggle of some kind. And that wasn’t what he wanted! He just wanted it acknowledged that there might be a reason people are fighting not to die, or hell, he’d settle for not getting yelled at for kicking off on one every time someone suggests werewolves would make an excellent main course dish or the disgrace of treating mudbloods and wizards (who are of course _different_ ) in the same wards at the hospital. He’d settle for the Death Eater praise squad to shut up and shut out, but that one had become increasingly popular lately, even in their own home. He wasn’t a particularly violent person (not _really_ , scuffling didn’t count), but those were usually the points he wanted to pick up the ridiculously overpriced gravy boat and throw it over Bella’s dress like he would have when he younger.

“You know what your problem is, don’t you?” he spat. He pushed himself forward, taking a moment to make sure he hit against his brother as he did because he was being even more useless than usual, and stood to full height. He’d had enough of their pretentious dismissals and comparisons, and his mother would hate it - both being interrupted before she could respond with some glowing rendition of 'an ode to my youngest child' and the fact that he was now a damn sight taller than her and could look down at her if he so wished. Tonight, he so wished. “You’re scared one of _them_ might actually be better at something than you. Stronger, more powerful, smarter.” He was on a roll, and decided to hell with it. You only live once. “End up as Minister or something. It’s more than you ever did. No wonder you can’t stand them — you can’t stand the fact someone’s better at something than you are.”

“Given the noble work of some of your schoolmates and their families, I very much doubt that,” she dismissed, with her usual icy demeanor.

He caught the implication and his temper snapped, with his nostrils flared and face flush. Unfortunately, she always did know how to piss him off almost as easily as he could with her. He bit the inside of his cheek and attempted to keep the raw anger out of his tone. “The Headmaster wouldn’t let anything happen to anyone within the school walls.” It wasn’t entirely true, not if the stories about the old passages weren’t just stories, but it felt comforting to say.

“Your Headmaster and his ilk have their days numbered, so as to protect the young.” She set down her tea, and faced dead on. “If only to stop others falling for the same immoral weaknesses and shame as has befallen our own house of late.”

She said it with such conviction that he just _blew_. He just could not _take_ it anymore. She could mix rhetoric with threats of death, blame all of their problems on him rather than accept that they are all insane, but it always boiled down to the same thing: nothing ever bloody changed, and no one in this fucking family ever backed him up so much as crawled into their own bubbles and lived there. Well, he was starting to _suffocate_ in his.

“LISTEN TO YOURSELVES!” He yelled sharply, trying not to wince at the sound of his own voice cutting into the headache that had been brewing. He was starting to feel sick in the pit of his stomach from it, but he wasn’t about to be the one to back down. In a fit of anger, he reached straight down for the book his bloody _perfect_ younger brother had to throw it against the opposing wall. “You’re talking about people’s lives and yet you can’t get it through your thick skulls to care. What is wrong with you!”

 

* * *

 

"Just _let it go_ , Sirius."

The words slipped out with a snarl before Regulus had consciously decided to respond, but with his book ripped away and thrown haphazardly across the room, a little flash of irritation had tangled itself up in the desire to be left out of the argument completely. Pointedly, Regulus stood and approached the book, splayed open with pages bent under the weight of the cover. (He'd _lost the page_ now, bloody Sirius.) With book in hand and a chilly edge to his expression, Regulus returned to his seat on the sofa without sparing a glance to his brother, immediately rejecting the possibility of standing, however incendiary the older boy might be. To stand would be to _dignify_ the tantrum (and perhaps, even more importantly, would only emphasize how much _shorter_ Regulus still was).

With calm control still smoothing his voice, he added, "You say you aren't a child, but you're acting like a _toddler_ , throwing books around like that. If you're going to be _dramatic_ , at least be dramatic about something that _matters_."

“I’d rather be a toddler than a _puppet_ ,” Sirius spat back at him, sounding a little unsteady and breathless. “At least I have the option to grow up, while you’re eternally _fucked_! You want to talk about something that matters? We have a raving psycho and his psychotic minions trying to destroy massive parts of our _home_ and killing people who could do more fucking _spells_ than you can. And what do you do? Get on your KNEES in fucking REVERENCE!” His hand hovered near his wand for a moment, before clenching white and looking to Regulus. “ _Never_ thought I’d see the day a _Black_ would bow to anyone, pay praise to some radical nut and let themselves be _followers_ like it means anything. And this is something to be proud of? This is what I’m supposed to aspire to?! You are pathetic!”

"I'm not pathetic, I'm _sensible_ ," Regulus countered, feeling a sting but fighting to keep it off his face. He was not a _puppet_ , they did not _belittle_ themselves, the Dark Lord was not _psychotic_...

Dropping his eyes to the book again - it was nowhere near the correct page - and still feeling profoundly uncomfortable with the direction this evening was taking, Regulus began flipping to try and find his spot again. Though his strategy of planned ignoring had done little to stave off any involvement in the argument, perhaps they could end this quickly, send his brother storming off for the night so they could start again in the morning. This holiday was supposed to be _different_ , was supposed to be a holiday where Sirius kept his _inflammatory thoughts_ to himself…

That had been the deal. Sirius would resist the urge to yammer on about muggleborn rights for one summer, and Regulus would accompany him on his breaks from the constant barrage of their social peers. They had snuck off to the gallery just a few days prior, the two of them, and for an afternoon of only mild bickering, Regulus had dared to think perhaps his brother’s promise was not so impossible. But of course that had been too much to ask, and Regulus was forced to admit that he should have known such a fluke was too good to be true. If Sirius felt a particular way, then he felt that way, but did he always have to _say_ it?

With a firm press of the lips, Regulus placed his hand on the book, now sitting in his lap. "I have pride in _who we are_ , and just because those Gryffindor bottom-feeder friends of yours brainwashed you into some _mouthpiece for mudblood rights_ doesn't change the reality,” he continued, the words rolling effortlessly off his tongue, “Society has been soiled, continues to be soiled more and more each day; it’s natural that there are those who would rise to protect against it. That does not make them psychotic."

For a flash of a moment, his gaze flicked to their mother’s approving - if intense - expression, then back to Sirius as his fingers began smoothing the new creases in his book. "I'm done talking about this. If you don't want to hear it, stop bringing it up."

“Pride?” Sirius gave an uneven laugh, short and bitter. Sirius, clearly, was not done talking about it. “Of course I don’t have any pride, there’s nothing to be proud of. I’ve got a brother who’s too _shit scared_ to have an opinion, not to mention a father who should be checked for signs of life because he hasn’t shown any in about a _decade—_ ”

“ _Sirius Orion Black!_ ” came the shrill tones of his mother, finally having lost her temper in the way she always did with him after a while.

“And _you_!” He scoffed, “Ashamed of me? I’m _ashamed_ to have come out of that _wreck_. I might be a screw up, but look at what I came from! What’s your great achievement, then? Being like everyone else? Face it, your only accomplishments are a _terrified little boy_ and _me_. Great job!”

That made her stand up. “DON’T YOU _DARE_ SPEAK TO ME LIKE THAT!”

“Dare? I fucking dare! You’re nothing more than an arrogant, frigid _bitch_!” He flexed his fingers, and turned away from her, fuming . “I _hate_ you, I _HATE_ YOU!”

Something shattered.

Clutching his book until his knuckles were white, Regulus sat still and frozen, even as the explosive shatter fell to silence. Once again tearing his eyes from the pages to survey the sheen of broken glass, he hesitated a moment, a moment longer - then forced himself to stand, allowing the book to fall forgotten on the cushions. After leveling a pointed and accusatory stare at the side of Sirius’s head, he dared a much more withdrawn look at their mother, wheels almost visibly turning behind his eyes.

"Mum?" Regulus ventured quietly, fighting to keep his voice steady.

 

* * *

“Mum?” Sirius echoed, not even trying to keep his voice from wavering as his mother fell back into her chair.

He was frozen, caught between unable to breathe and throwing up then and there. Suddenly, despite growing up around Gryffindor Tower, he couldn’t think of nearly enough swear words, nor could he remember how to choke the words out or do anything at all beyond listen to his heart slam repeatedly into his chest. The haze of emotion cleared just enough for him to realise what the copper tinged smell that had suddenly hit him was: _blood_.

The glassware was no longer on the table. For a moment, he couldn’t understand why.

Then he noticed the red tinges, both on his mother's clothed arms (in this weather?) and it seemed like he’d managed to nick himself. He took a nervous step forward, hearing the glass crunch under his boot. The sound seemed disconnected from the rest of the room, before it all hit him with a sudden rush of noise and movement. It didn’t register what his mother was yelling, but he could make an educated guess from the several pieces that had embedded themselves in her clothes and her arms with such severe force that it looked deliberate. Maybe it _was_ deliberate - had he been trying to hurt her? Yes, but not like _that_. That wasn’t deliberate.

By some weird acoustical phenomena, it was easier to hear his father’s much quieter but considerably firmer voice than his mother’s. Probably because he wasn’t fuming and yelling at them to get out, but his mother had always been a proud woman: she wouldn’t want someone seeing her showing any vulnerability. He would never hear the end of this. If it had shattered a few inches higher, he would never have heard anything from her ever again.

Still, it took a moment for what his father was saying to register.

_You heard your mother, outside, both of you._

Both of them. He’d almost forgotten in the moment that Regulus was there. He blinked sluggishly a couple of times, before realising his brother was already leaving. Of course he was; he’d been told to. They’d been told to.

“Sirius.”

His head snapped up this time, where he could see even his father’s seemingly unending patience wavering under the weight of his wife screaming at them to get out of the room now.

“I won’t repeat myself.”

He didn’t have to.

Disjointed and uneasy, he desperately wanted out of the room so promptly, he fled straight into the hall.

 

* * *

 

The shouting, the blood, the broken glass - Regulus had not wanted to be in the vicinity of the discussion when it was just a _normal_ battle of wills, and once he had come back to himself, escaping was more of a blessing than a banishment. In truth, he could have done with permission to flee twenty minutes prior, and dismissal was a welcome reprieve from having to figure out how to cope with the scene. To see his mother like that, wounded and taken off guard, was jarring, and he'd wanted to say something, wanted to find a balm for that admittedly frightening moment, but there was never anything he could say in moments like that. What could he possibly say to make up for Sirius _literally_ exploding at her?

Regulus was several paces down the hallways when his brother came out behind him, and out of all the words crashing inside his mind, _shock and blame and concern and horror_ , he didn't know what to say. He didn't want to think about it, wanted instead just to lie down somewhere quiet and isolated with his book and-

He was pulled out of the thought for a fleeting moment as he realised he'd left his book on the sofa. The thought felt almost comical, amongst all his other thoughts, but there was no way he was going back in there now, no matter how badly he wanted to reach the end of the chapter. Physically shaking the thought from his head, Regulus pressed forward to his little corner of their summer home: On the other side of that door, maybe he could end his night with a bit of peace and distraction.

“Regulus.”

Upon hearing his name, Regulus recognized that _of course_ he was not going to so easily escape to a night of peace and distraction - but where a demanding or mischievous edge might normally color such a call to his attention, Regulus instead heard strain, heard something distinctly _not_ characteristic of his older brother. The altercation had left him unnerved, uncertain of how to even _interact_ with his brother in the wake of an eruption, but there was something behind the tone that gave Regulus pause, stopping him in his tracks just outside the solitude of his room. For a moment, Regulus's words were stuck in his throat, and he looked at the door before him, debating evasion for just a moment longer before willing himself to speak.

"Why do you always have to fight her?" His voice was quiet, clear, twinged just slightly with a frustration threatening to bubble up over the stunned sense of alarm, and as he crossed his arms, he still couldn't force himself to turn around and look at Sirius. He told himself to stop right there, to let it drop because _this too_ was a beaten path, that _this too_ was asking for a fight, but their mother- "Honestly, why can't you just keep your _mouth shut_ when you know already know how she's going to react? You _hurt_ her tonight, and what did it accomplish?"

“I didn’t mean to—” Sirius stopped, thinning his lips and seemingly steeling himself for another round. “Why is it always about her? Why is it, when she _pushed_ me into doing it, is it all my fault? I know she’s your mother, but you never ask about me. I know I wasn’t exactly nice about you, but I don’t mean that shit. I _don’t_ , and I know you won’t believe me, but I’m tired of this fight too. With you, with her...but I’m _so very tired of this_ and most of all, I’m tired of you always being on their side.” He let out a low, unsteady breath. “All it ever accomplishes is to remind me that you’re their child first, my brother second, and that as long as they hate me and you’re theirs, I don’t belong.”

"I don’t want to fight with you either, but truthfully you make it difficult to be on your side," Regulus added quietly, frustration punctuating a look of drawn discomfort. "Don’t act like you don’t put me second. You put your friends before me, before all of us; you put _everyone_ before us; you even put _muggles_ before us. Maybe if _you_ would stop favouring muggles over your own family, we would not be having this problem in the first place. There would be no _need_ for choices, or for arguments, or for _any_ of this. " Twisting around, Regulus looked his brother in the face with his own little brush of accusation. Bits of guilt and hurt alike threaded into the tapestry of their never-ending argument, shrouded beneath a carefully controlled expression, and he wished so much that he could transport back to a time when he could be his parents' child and his brother's brother at the same time without the constant barrage of some sort of twisted _conflict_ at every turn.

(It had been _years_ …)

“Recognising a right to exist isn’t putting before. I’m not the one who always brings it up and-” Sirius stopped himself, before slumping his shoulders forward. He looked tired. “You know how difficult it feels? I feel like that _all the time_. I don’t put my friends first because I want to cause fights. I do it because I need time where I don’t feel like everything I think or do is wrong.”

Regulus crinkled his nose. _The things you do and say usually **are** wrong_ \- Biting back the admittedly cruel thought and feeling a bit guilty in light of his brother's comparative civility, Regulus remained silent for a moment, stuck in their stalemate...

...Because Sirius was wrong about it all. Those foolish muggle-loving Gryffindor ideals _were_ the cause of conflict, and while their parents were not necessarily the warmest or most emotionally encouraging when it came to their expectations, _Regulus_ didn't wage verbal wars every other day. Vigilant compliance and the quest to meet every lofty expectation was suffocating too, but _he_ was not at odds with their family.

Sirius shook his head seemingly at nothing in particular. “Put aside the opinions for a minute, and the problem is still there. I, I didn’t _mean_ for that to happen. But I can’t take this anymore. I might hate them, but I don’t want to hurt them, or me. I’m just….angry and tired. It’s nothing new, I know, but I can’t agree with them, and I don’t see it ever changing.”

"You are making this difficult for yourself. Even if you don't agree, opinions are not something you can carelessly express without consequence if you're going to choose inflammatory ones. You don't have to make your personal thoughts into a fight," Regulus said with a frown, and in the moment, the words weren't entirely accusatory. It felt so obvious, so simple...

But Sirius had said so himself just seconds before that they would never see eye to eye. That this might not just be a school-length phase, that Sirius might really be slipping _permanently_ into a crowd of muggle-lovers was something he loathed to consider. Just days before, Sirius had almost felt like a brother again, however briefly, but to plunge into this fight again was a gust of whiplash to the face, over and over again, every time.

"I think I have had quite enough of this for a night," Regulus added a beat later as his hand found the doorknob to his room. It wasn't terribly late yet, but perhaps luck would be on his side, and they could pretend nothing had happened when morning came...

"You've had enough?" Sirius let out a bark of laughter, sharp and loud. " _I've_ had enough. I'm just...done with all of it. But we have company coming, and I can't stay down here. I _can't_."

Regulus crinkled his nose before catching himself and smoothing his expression again. For a moment, the get-together had slipped his mind, and in light of what had happened, he had hoped they could be spared social pretenses for one night - send an owl to say an emergency had come up, _pretend to be ill_ , anything that would shorten the length of time between the present moment and complete solitude. He wasn't hungry, he didn't feel like speaking to anyone at all (even more so than normal), but if plans pressed forward, he couldn't very well be absent, especially not the in the wake of Sirius's literal explosion. Instead of pushing the door open, Regulus leaned forward against it, letting his forehead rest on the wood, as if the pressure would physically push the dread back into the safe recesses of his mind.

"What are the chances they will reschedule in light of extenuating circumstances?" Regulus asked, knowing quite well that a meteor could be hurling straight for England, and that probably wouldn't be extenuating enough to break a social engagement, yet he found himself unable to completely keep the hope out of his voice. Even if it was a perfect opportunity to tell Sirius to steel up and pretend to be a decent heir for a night to make up for that evening's fight, he _really_ did not not want to go back in there either...

“Unless your mother is lying down there on her deathbed, I think things will continue as planned,” Sirius said, miserably. He seemed to hesitate for a moment, then spoke quietly. “It’s alright, go to bed...I’ll figure it out.”

"How are you planning to do that?" Regulus asked with his forehead still pressed to the door, the tone uncertain and notably devoid of mockery. The position was not dignified in any sense of the word, and even if tension had _not_ been thick in the air, he would undoubtedly get scolded for slumping around the house, were he to be caught. The mere thought was more than enough motivation to snap out of it, get a grip, compose himself. Straightening out of the door-pressed lean, Regulus looked to his brother with a slightly furrowed expression, trying to picture how Sirius might manage to convince their parents that a night off was needed _without_ making the situation worse...

“A plan? Me?” Sirius choked out a laugh, but there was no real heart to it. He understood the skepticism. “It’s my mess. I’ll sort it out.”

The remark called forth a roll of the eyes, but tension slowly melted from Regulus’s shoulders as he relaxed into the thought of stepping through that door and perhaps not having to face another human being for hours. Leaving the resolution of a conflict to his brother (particularly a conflict with their _parents_ ) seemed like it could be a devastatingly poor choice, but somehow, it always worked out in the end. There would probably be another fight dragged forth, they may or may not get out of a social engagement that night...but Sirius would get it sorted.

"Best of luck to you, then. Try not to make it worse," Regulus said as his hand found the doorknob again, though already some of the tension had trickled out from his voice. "And do _not_ forget to come get me if I need to be out there."

“Would I really do something like that? ” Sirius said, but there was a light air to the tone. “Don’t answer that, just go before I come to my senses.” He gave him a quick push towards the door, “Besides, how could I possibly make this night any worse?”

"I am certain you could manage if you put your mind to it," Regulus quipped, but he was already slipping into the room he had claimed as his own years before, and relaxation was now settling over him, despite the underlying charge of the night. The glass-shattering argument had been angering, _jarring_ , but safety wrapped around him like a blanket, already dulling the worst of it for a quiet moment, and as he calmed down - cooled down - collected himself, the unnerving fear was tucked away and replaced with a faith in their failproof ability to press forward.

Whether their evening would resume as planned, or whether their composure would be delayed until morning, everything would ultimately shift back into place as it always did. Behind him, the door clicked softly.

 

* * *

For a beat, Sirius stood in the hallway aimlessly.

There was absolutely no grand plan for trying to get out of having people over. His grand plans tended to involve pranks and somehow, without an audience, they were never as much fun and without burning the place to a cinder, he didn’t imagine it would work. But he’d said he’d figure it out, so he’d figure it out. He would only have to phrase it in a way that allow everyone to save face. If they were in the mood to listen, that was. He pulled the handle of the door slowly, hoping some inspiration was going to hit the moment he stepped in, and delaying the moment seemed like it would give him some more time. His mother's voice, considerably calmer now, filtered through as soon as the door unclicked.

"— more murtlap essence if they're still open in an hour."

Sirius stilled. He was not much one for eavesdropping; for a start, their parents rarely spoke seriously to one another beyond the usual casual niceties anywhere either of the boys could hear them. For another, he was fond of casually strolling in and making his presence known regardless of what was being discussed. But hearing it caused uncomfortable twinge of guilt. If it had been anyone else he'd exploded on, he would at least try to apologise. But it was always harder here. It was always a power struggle.

"I believe Regulus made a good point." His father's voice broke his reverie. Blimey, maybe he should have gone and gotten his brother. He'd have been insufferably cheerful at the idea that his father not only listened but agreed with him on something. Perhaps he could tell him when he got back upstairs.

"The entire blame cannot be placed at the school's feet. Regulus attends the same classes, yet he shows no signs of the same maladjustments." Oh, it was them discussing their favourite topic: how much better a son Regulus was. Sirius clenched. Of course it was.

"Regulus was appropriately socialised. When removed from those influences, Sirius may throw a tantrum about it, but he does improve. Where was it they went a few days ago?"

He could hear the derision in his mother's tone. He couldn't argue with it. It was a terrible exhibition. "To see what passes for art these days at the gallery."

"Ah, yes. There you go, they were still talking about it at Alcander's party, and aside from his usual lack of decorum, the party passed without incident."

 _Was that true?_ Thinking back on it, he couldn't really remember the party. Vaguely something about the meal, but he mostly remembered talking about the new Montrose Magpies line up and whether the Bats stood a chance, even with the new equipment. Even so, he wouldn’t necessarily call the night an improvement. It was just quieter. Quieter wasn’t always better.

"Yet he destroyed Mother's tea set the next afternoon. It has been in the family for four generations, but it couldn't survive Sirius losing his temper at nothing." _It wasn't at nothing!_ Sirius thought, incredulous. _They were talking about the 'heroicism' in the Death Eaters and wouldn't shut up._

"Nevertheless, I believe it's the most viable plan."

What plan?

"...Agreed." Sirius took a breath in and out to steel himself again, ready to stop hiding in the shadows because he didn't think he could bear listening to himself described anymore without at least having a chance to defend himself.

He almost didn't hear the follow up retort.

"—and tutors arranged," he heard Orion say evenly.

Sirius had to bite back an irritated sneer. His grades were wonderful, thank you very much. He might get an E in Divination for mucking about and perhaps in History of Magic since it was boring, but other than that, he didn't require any help on that front.

"They had better be of a stronger constitution than the ones we had before Hogwarts. After the hair removal incident and two fires, she ended up blubbering." Walburga sighed, loudly. "He'll be worse. I doubt it's the last irreplaceable heirloom we'll lose this year."

"It won't last, and it'll be good for him." There was a rustling sound on the other side of the door. "If all goes well, I'm sure your brother would take him after the winter occasions. That ought to improve his mood."

On this, his father had a point. He'd always been fond of his Uncle Alphard. He spent most of his life going into decryption and curse-breaking. It sounded a lot more exciting than spending new years in London.

"If you'll remember, my brother seems to think it's an excellent idea to go running around tombs. With his health! And of course, he never managed to have children of his own."

"I blame Eva for that. She stopped trying after only a short few years."

That was a little jarring. Speaking ill of family members that had not done something to 'deserve' it, such as support a muggle cause, simply was never done in front of him. Hearing his uncle's late wife spoken of like that wasn't something he expected. Hadn't he said once they couldn't have children?

"And this is what you want Sirius to pick up."

It didn't sound so bad to him. Though he'd always imagined having a family (he was the heir to the House of Black, it was expected he would have children, and he'd been told that for as long as he could remember), it seemed very far off. Something he would do after his adventures so he'd have something to tell them. Or maybe they could try having adventures together! It could be like a book.

"Sirius simply needs the right girl, someone who can manage him. We have a few years." _Manage him?_ This was bloody ridiculous, he wasn't even of age yet and they were thinking about who he was going to end up with? He thought over the girls he knew that his parents liked - or more specifically, didn't disapprove of - and scowled. He was putting a stop to this. He wasn't ready for any of that, he hadn't had his own life yet.

"And Regulus?" Had never so much as looked at a girl, or boy for that matter. This was way too soon, and he was going to damn well tell them they'd find their own families in their own time and not to get on their backs about it.

"He's doing well. I see no reason he shouldn't remain at Hogwarts while he continues to thrive."

Something icy dropped in Sirius' stomach. Suddenly, he understood that maybe it wasn't his grades that were the problem. "Besides, it will be easier to explain one absence than two. It's less of a scandal after OWLs, and given the stresses of NEWT study, entirely appropriate for it to be done privately in the comforts of home."

" _No._ "

It was of an emotion more than a word, slipping out almost without him noticing it. However, it appeared that openly talking on the other side of the door tended to give you away when you were trying to be discreet. He didn't care. He was starting to feel numb all over, the feeling of panic at the idea of being _stuck_ there with his parents alone, listening to them go on and on about the Death Eaters and the state of the magical world and his bike would probably deteriorate and he'd miss so many new albums and he knew he was spiraling, but couldn't seem to control it.

“ _Sirius!_ ” He could hear the exasperated anger in her voice, but he couldn’t bring himself to care about it now. He hadn’t come in here for round two, but they couldn’t do this. They _couldn’t_.

“It’s not bad enough I have to sit here and listen to you go on and on about purity and culture?” Sirius said it all in a single long breath, then took a heaving one. “You’re going to _ruin my life_!”

“Don’t be so dramatic,” she replied.

“I’m not being dramatic!” Sirius felt his voice rising, dramatically. He tried to quash it down, but he was starting to feel like he couldn’t breathe. “You’re not listening. I’m going and, and you can’t stop me.”

“You were told to leave,” his father reminded him. ”Go and calm down, Sirius. We can discuss it tomorrow.”

Sirius was already shaking his head. He didn’t want to discuss it tomorrow. He didn’t want to be in this house at all right now. “I would rather never set foot in Grimmauld Place ever again than be forced to stay there listening to _you_!”

“You’re getting yourself into another state,” Orion pointed out in a maddeningly calm way that made it sound like he was being completely rational. “You may offer your apologies to your aunt when she arrives, then go and take some time to think about your future.”

“Any future where I end up like you lot is a future I don’t _want_ ,” Sirius spat back at him.

"Child," his mother started, and sentences that started like that never ended well, "If I have to go march you back to your room for you to do as you're told, you'll spend the rest of the summer in it."

Sirius put his weight on one foot, then the other and back again while he tried to think. "I'm going back," he said, firmly before bolting out of the door and slamming the door.

He slammed the door on his own room for good measure.

For the second time that night, Sirius stood alone in a room, unsure of what to do now. Adrenaline coursed through him, but there was no one to argue with and no one to fight. (Regulus didn't count, he couldn't throw a punch worth a damn.) He was broken out of the moment by Hootie at the window, making a variety of irritated noises that mostly meant he wanted to go out. Sirius reached over to the large window and opened it, with Hootie fleeing straight out into the night the moment he was able.

 _He’s got the right idea,_ Sirius thought. Then thought again, this time much more seriously. He could just go. While he was getting taller, he was still sure he’d fit if he was careful about it. He could just go. The idea of it was dizzyingly simple.

_He could just go._

He looked around the room, maybe looking for something that would tell him that it wouldn’t be that simple, he’d get caught, and there’d be another argument, and he probably would end up stuck in the house for the whole, sweltering summer, and then no Hogwarts, no James, no Remus, no Peter, no more McGonagall or Hagrid or Giant Squid, and for an embarrassing moment, he could feel the prick of tears starting to form. He couldn’t do it. He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t sit in that mausoleum of a house and force another generation to go through this.

In a moment, he was grabbing his bag from earlier when he’d planned to hang out on the beach, and his wand, and before he could talk himself out of it, climbed through the window. The moment his feet his the ground, took off at a run without looking back.

 

* * *

Regulus rose the next morning to a house dark and quiet, the sun barely peeking over the horizon to cast subtle shadows across the floor. On the bedside table was a book closed and completed - though not Regulus’s first choice, it had been an altogether decent way to pass the remainder of his night, however aggressively his stomach now complained for skipping dinner. A slam had split the silence, the night before, not long after Sirius had gone to reason with their parents - but the social engagement had never come, and the peace that befell the house was nothing he would dare disturb, even for a meal.

Silently he padded down the stairs, and when he came to the sitting room where the fight had raged the night before, he spotted his book still sitting on the sofa where he’d left it. Beside that sofa sat his father in one of the chairs, a steaming cup of tea beside and the Daily Prophet raised between them like a barrier. Passing through, Regulus picked the book up, tucking it to his chest. He could smell breakfast before reaching the kitchen, and the sight of Kreacher moving about the room in a preparatory flurry brought a proper smile to his face.

“Good morning, Kreacher,” he greeted pleasantly, and the elf immediately took to pouring him a cup of tea.

“For Master Regulus,” the elf offered, his voice telling of his good spirits, however raspy it was.

Returning his due thanks, Regulus took the cup and lingered a moment, and a moment longer, before returning to the sitting room, taking the chair next to his father and setting the cup on the table between them, in line with his father's and situated just so. For nearly half an hour, they read in silence. His mother surfaced next, a mood still darkening her face, but breakfast came and went without incident, not much in the way of conversation until Kreacher was clearing away the dishes, underpinning the words with soft clinks.

“We will be having lunch with your Aunt Lucretia and Uncle Ignatius, this afternoon,” his mother stated quite matter-of-factly, as if their plans for the previous night had not exploded as spectacularly as his grandmother’s tea set. There was no sign of the upset in his mother’s proud posture. He thought of Sirius, then, perhaps sulking upstairs, or serving some penance in exchange for their reprieve last night. Whatever the reason, it had cost him a wonderful breakfast.

“I look forward to it,” Regulus responded with an air of genuine sincerity. Uncle Ignatius always asked after Quidditch, and Regulus was looking forward to reporting the riveting details of how Slytherin had won the Inter-House Quidditch Cup thanks to his superior snitch-catching abilities in the final game (though he was still thinking about how to say as much without boasting).

“Your Aunt Lucretia has been asking after you and your schooling. You always do so well,” his mother granted, despite the strange edge to expression and tone as she added, “Be sure to tell your brother his cooperation is required, no exceptions.”

(Far easier commanded than done, but there was no argument in his face as he nodded.)

Walburga and Orion each stood, wasting no time in moving on to the next block of the morning, to some pressing thing or another. Perhaps if Regulus was lucky, someone would spare time for a game of wizarding chess, but the last thing he wanted to do was risk forgetting to honour a direct instruction. Eyeing the food still remaining on the table, he pressed his lips to a line, glanced behind at Kreacher, then took a napkin to wrap up a piece of toast and several small pieces of sausage. It was not much, but if Sirius really had bargained for their freedom, it was the least he could offer. Again, Regulus padded up the stairs, straight ahead to Sirius’s door, rapping three times and -

Waiting.

Waiting.

Thrice more, he rapped on the door, a little louder this time, and pressed an impatient ear to the wood. “Sirius?” he called out, nose crinkling slightly at the silence. Sleeping, perhaps? A waste of the summer, as far as Regulus was concerned, regardless of whether they’d had a row the night before. With a put upon sigh, Regulus twisted the handle and pushed his way into the room, letting the door swing lazily to the wall.

A salty breeze rushed to greet him, the sun shining brightly through an open window and across an empty room. Sirius was not there. Immediately, Regulus’s mind seized, fingers clasping the breakfast package a little too tightly as his eyes darted to each corner. The bed was still tidy, a sure sign that his brother had been nowhere near it since Kreacher had smoothed its sheets the morning before. Taking his bottom lip between his teeth, Regulus approached the window and looked downward, to the side, upward to the protruding edges of the roof, but there was no sign to be seen.

“Sirius, this isn’t funny,” he muttered, turning in a circle in one last survey of the room and finding as little success as he had the first time. His older brother had left no sign, no disturbance - but he had _left_ , and morning had not brought him home this time.

In the other room, their mother and father… (They couldn’t know, could they? His mother had not sounded as though she knew. And if she didn’t already know…)

Horror washed over him, hot and thick and suffocating as he backed out of the room again, shutting the door with a hollow click.

Days, weeks, months, years later, it would not be the white clench of his father’s knuckles that would weigh heaviest on his mind, nor would it be his mother’s deafening pause and her heated snarl to follow that would echo endlessly. Rather, it was the gut-wrenching, excruciating uncertainty as every set of society eyes seemed to question the missing link in their chain that day, and the day after, and for those years to come. Roaring loudest in his mind would be his brother’s promise to set his mess to rights, and those final words before parting the night before:

 _Besides, how could I possibly make this night any worse?_   Sirius had said.

Never again would Regulus foolishly underestimate his brother’s ability to reduce everything to ruins, to set a House aflame, to not just crack - but crush - the foundation out from under them. From under _him_.

Where he had once had a brother, Regulus now had a scorch mark, and he would not let that scorch burn him again.

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from the David Bowie classic "Cat people."


End file.
